Sherlock's Coat
by Shake-My-Ass-to-The-Wind
Summary: Post-Fall. It's directly after the fall, and John must cope with his new realisations. He receives a much needed present and some much needed help. Image found from Tumblr via weavile. This was originally going to be a one shot, but here, I have written a part two, may continue.. I dunno..
1. Part I

John sat, shoulders hunched, the little red shock blanket draped over him, mocking him. Sirens blared and flashed and John sat, staring ahead, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving. People kept coming over to him, asking if he was ok, offering him something to drink, trying to console him, but he ignored them.

"I'm fine," he repeated over and over again, the words quickly losing meaning as he repeated them to different men and women, all looking sad and worried. The world seemed to blur and run together, time slowing down and then speeding up, the world flashing and swirling around him. John continued to sit there, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving.

"John?" he heard a familiar voice say, and he raised his head to see D.I Lestrade, silhouetted against the fast approaching twilight.

"Huh?" John asked, blinking rapidly as if it would clear his head. "Y-Yes?" John blinked a few more times and pulled his phone out to check the time; he'd been sitting here for hours he realised.

"John, um, we have something we thought you might like to see," the D.I mumbled, staring at the ground.

"What? What is it?" John looked at the D.I, wondering what he wanted; couldn't he see that John needed to be alone?

"Um, well, here. We thought you might like to, um, see it." John gasped audibly as Lestrade handed him Sherlock's coat with a sad smile. "I'm sorry, John." John only nodded and took the coat in a daze, biting his trembling lip as he slipped the long coat on, the sleeves hanging down over his hands.

"Th-thank you," John whispered, hugging the coat closer to himself. The D.I merely nodded and walked away, giving John one last backwards glance. John sat in silence, smelling the scent of Sherlock all around him. It was an odd but beautiful mixture of stale cigarettes, chemicals, maybe a little blood, and that alluring shampoo he used, the fancy kind. John pulled the neck up on the coat and buried his nose into the fabric, wincing as he noticed the faint blood stain blemishing the beautiful coat. John sighed as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves, leaving the coat draped over his shoulders as he dropped his head into his hands.

He hadn't cried yet, his mind still not fully processing the fact that Sherlock was really gone, but as he sat there with his friend's jacket hanging on his trembling shoulders, it seemed to really hit him, and he began to sob. It was soft at first, barely noticeable, but soon he was sobbing loudly, his whole body wracked by the violent outbursts. He gasped for air in between each sob and choked and sputtered, the breath catching in his throat painfully.

"Why, Sherlock?" John asked loudly, not caring about the wary glances from the police and medical workers. "Why would you leave me?" John shuddered as another sob ripped through his body, and he pulled the coat tighter around himself, snuggling into the flowing fabric.

After several more minutes of his deep sobbing, John got himself under better control and sat there, once again unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving as tears silently streamed down his face, decorating the coat with dark circles.

John found that, if he closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply, it was almost as if Sherlock was beside him, about to spew off another brilliant deduction. John smiled at the memory of their first case together and that moment in the cab when Sherlock told him all about how he had deduced him; John had been so amazed.

But then, John opened his eyes and looked at the flashing sirens and the blood on the pavement and the police tape, and he remembered that Sherlock was dead, and his heart would begin to bleed again. John sat there through the whole thing, Sherlock's coat draped across his shoulders, and he would have sat there all night if Lestrade hadn't walked up and told John that it was time to go. John had been confused, where was the D.I taking him? But Lestrade had assured him that he was just taking him back to his place so he could monitor John for the night. John just nodded, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving. Then suddenly, a though passed through his head: the coat.

"Do I get to keep this?" he asked gruffly, avoiding Greg's eyes.

"No," Anderson said, walking up behind the D.I with a scowl. "It's evidence." John felt his face fall and his lip began to quiver as he wrapped it around him, shrinking back from the men in front of him. Anderson stretched out a hand to pull it off of John, but Lestrade stopped him.

"Let him keep it," he whispered, shooting Anderson a 'do what I bloody say' look, but Anderson shook his head.

"It's evidence," he hissed, but Lestrade shook his head.

"He's already been through so much; he's keeping it. Come on John." The D.I turned away from Anderson and pulled John to his feet, making sure the coat was fully over John's shoulders. "The wife will make you some tea when we get home, maybe a bit of food if you're hungry," Greg said with a smile as he led John to his cop car. He pushed John down into the passenger side and got in himself, putting the car in drive, and heading towards his home. "So John," Greg began lightly. "How about a nice sandwich and beer when we get in? I'm sure there's still some football on; how's that sound?" John shrugged his shoulders and snuggled down into Sherlock's jacket, his tears soaking the collar annoyingly.

"Not hungry," John muttered, closing his eyes, hoping that he would be able to hear Sherlock's voice. He struggled to bring up a memory of Sherlock speaking to him, and when he finally did, he knew it wasn't accurate and that he would never really hear Sherlock's voice properly ever again. New tears began to fall at this realisation and John worked hard to suppress his whimpers from Greg.

"You have to eat John," Greg said softly, his voice coaxing, but John just shook his head and closed his eyes tightly. John tired to remember Sherlock, not on the roof, but before, and then it hit him.

One of the last things John ever said to Sherlock was calling him 'you machine.' A moan escaped John's lips and he doubled over. He could vaguely hear Greg calling out to him, and could faintly feel Greg's hand on his back, but now, that mental imagine flooded his brain, and he felt sick.

"I think I'm going to be sick," John mumbled softly, not even registering what was happening or what he was saying or even where he was. All John could think was 'you machine' over and over and over.

"Get out of the car mate, go, go, I've stopped, please don't throw up in my cop car," Greg was saying, shaking John's arm, but John just shook his head.

"N-No, I'm fine, sorry," John said softly, his mind in a thick haze. _You machine, you machine, you machine, you machine, _John's mind played these words over and over again, and John gave up on suppressing his sobs as he began to mumble it to himself, rocking back and forth. He could feel the D.I's worried, uneasy glances at him, but he ignored them, continuing to mumble.

"John, mate, we're um, we're at my house. Let's get you inside and get you some food, alright?" John just sat in the seat, now unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving, not wanting to move an inch. "Um, come along, mate," the D.I muttered as he pulled John out of the car and shoved him towards the front door. John stumbled up the walk way, the coat dragging the ground, him accidently stepping on it and almost falling several times.

Once the two men got inside, they were both given large sandwiches and sat in front of the T.V to watch football. Mrs. Lestrade had offered to take John's coat, but he'd looked at her with a look horror and tightened it protectively around him. He sat on Greg's couch now, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving, not even attempting to touch his food. Greg tried to persuade him, but John refused, choosing instead to pull the collar of the coat up, inhaling the beautiful scent deeply.

When the game finally ended, Greg took John's untouched food and drink into the kitchen and went to get blankets for John to sleep on.

"You can sleep on the couch mate, and in the morning we'll all go out for breakfast. How does that sound?" John just shrugged and began to lay down, still fully clothed, but Greg stopped him. "John," he said softly. "Don't you think it's time to take that off?" He went to pull the coat off of John's shoulders, and John pulled away quickly.

"No," John said viciously, pulling the coat tighter around himself. "It's all I've got," he croaked, his voice raw from sobbing. "Please don't make me take it off Greg," John's voice broke mid whimper and he slowly pulled off his shoes and unbuttoned his pants. "I'm wearing the coat," he said softly. Greg just nodded and left the room with a sad smile, watching John slip into bed in boxers, his undershirt, and the coat.

"Oh John, I'm so sorry," Greg whispered before turning into his bedroom and pulling his phone out.

**He's got the coat, like you wanted. Are you sure this is best for him? He's hurting, Sherlock –GL **

The reply came seconds later.

**Good, thank you. And yes, it is best. Goodnight, Greg –SH **

Greg sighed and set his phone down, deleting the messages just in case. This had better work, because Greg doubted that John would be able to handle it for long. Sherlock was lost without his blogger, and his blogger was most definitely lost without him, and as if to confirm this thought, a loud sob echoed through the house, followed by the vicious words 'you machine.' Greg shivered and pulled the comforter over his head.

He had never doubted Sherlock's judgment more in his life. 


	2. Part II

**A/N: I wasn't originally going to add to this fic, but here you go. I may keep going, just depends on feedback/demand. xx~**

John stood in front of the kettle, Sherlock's coat draped over his shoulders. It was dirty and grimy and John knew that he should wash it, but he couldn't, that would remove the still faint traces of Sherlock's scent. John sucked in a ragged breath as he stuck his nose against the fabric, barely being able to smell any hints of Sherlock at all. John shook his head and inhaled deeper, feeling slightly lightheaded at the gust of oxygen, but there was still nothing. It just smelled dirty and sweaty and well-worn. John felt a few tears drip down his nose as he cast a wary glance at his watch, noting the date and time. Sherlock had died 5 months, 1 week, 3 days, and 2 hours ago, and it still hurt.

John sighed as the kettle started to whistle and he went and got two tea cups, just like every morning. He poured the coffee into the first mug slowly, adding two sugars before moving to pour the second mug, leaving it black. He set the two cups on the table across from each other and sat in the chair that the black coffee was placed at.

It was unhealthy and irrational and quite mental, but John didn't care; he couldn't stop himself. He had made Sherlock a cup of coffee ever since the first day, because after he'd gotten home from Greg's, he had went in and made coffee. He had made the usual, not even thinking about it, the motions mechanical.

_John pulled the coat around himself as he stood in front of the kettle, carefully pouring out the coffee, his mind elsewhere. He pulled the sugar out from the cabinet and put in two before moving onto pour his own coffee, taking it black. He picked up the two cups and moved to set them on the table, mouth open to call that the coffee was ready, when it hit him. The cups passed through his hands, both landing with an ear-shattering crack, flinging scalding coffee all over the floor, the cabinets, John's legs, and the bottom of the coat. John shook his head quickly as several sobs began to tear through his body, and he staggered out of the kitchen, his shoes crumbling the bits of china under his feet with little pops. He fell to the ground, stumbling over a blasted box of papers, only causing him to sob harder. Sherlock had left so much behind, including John. _

John shuddered at the memory and worked to push it away. He had moved on, well, he'd gotten a new flat far away from Baker Street, but his progress had stopped there. He didn't eat, didn't really go out, and never returned his friend's calls. The only time he saw anyone was when he went to visit Sherlock's grave, sleeping there more often than in his bed.

John wasn't always alone though, Greg visited sometimes. He would tell John about the Yarders and some of their current cases and make useless small talk about everything while John just sat, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving, wrapped in Sherlock's coat. Then, Greg would leave, a look of something akin to guilt in his eyes as he walked out, leaving John alone.

John preferred to be alone though, that way he could cry and talk to Sherlock. John talked to Sherlock all the time, and he knew it was extremely unhealthy. But what had started with just rambling at Sherlock's grave soon morphed into one of John's main coping mechanisms. He would talk to Sherlock as if he were right there, sitting next to John, deducing or solving or being just plain brilliant.

John sighed deeply and looked at the coffee across the table, the steam having dissipated long ago. John moved to clear it away, but decided against it and left it sitting there, moving from lukewarm to cold as he went across his small flat into his bathroom to shower.

He showered slowly, all his movements slow and mechanical, almost as if his limbs were made of heavy concrete that he could barely lift.

"I'm tired, Sherlock," he whispered into the water of the shower, wincing as the too hot water thudded against his chest. "I mean really, really tired. Greg and I are going to visit your grave today, and I don't think I'll be able to handle it. I don't like going with people; they make it so awkward for me. I can't say all the things I need to, and I know Greg would have a cow if he knew I'd been sleeping out there. I know it's unhealthy, but I _need _it." John let out a sad sigh as he shut the scalding water out and wrapped the towel around his waist slowly. His movements were always so lethargic now, doing everything so slowly and halfheartedly. John sighed again as he got ready, pulling on his baggy, ill fitting clothes jadedly.

None of his clothes fit him anymore because after he stopped eating, of course he'd lost weight steadily. John should have gone out and gotten new clothes, but that would have involved leaving the flat for something other than visiting Sherlock or getting food, which he barely ever had to do anymore. That left visiting Sherlock as the only activity John ever saw. His whole life revolved around Sherlock, more so than it had when Sherlock had been alive, but when you give someone your heart, you don't just take it back if they die.

John Watson was a broken man, and his heart had shattered against the pavement just as Sherlock's body had.

Sherlock Holmes had John Watson's heart, and he always would.

ɸɸɸɸ

Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, sipping his coffee carefully, staring at Sherlock sitting across from him.

"You're looking well," Greg said, taking in Sherlock's freshly cut hair and shaved face. "Looking better than last time; you've been eating?" Sherlock just nodded and sipped at his coffee carefully, a far away glance in his eyes. "Sherlock?" Greg asked, studying Sherlock's face as it shifted into a rather large smile. He turned and faced Greg and sipped at his coffee, still smiling.

"Yes, John?" he asked, the smile still stretching across his face. Greg's mouth fell open and he felt a sick feeling in his stomach.

"No, um, Sherlock; it's me, Greg." Greg wiped at his eyes quickly, feeling tears prickling at the corners. "Um, John is b-back at his flat." Sherlock's eyes seemed to snap open and the smiled quickly fell from his face, replaced with his usual frown.

"Yes, um, hello Greg," Sherlock said smoothly, acting as if his mishap hadn't happened. "How was John when you went and visited him? You're taking him to the cemetery today, right?" Sherlock sat forward and stared at Greg intensely, and the full and powerful gaze of Sherlock Holmes resting directly on himself made Greg almost nervous.

"Um, he's, well, you know how he is, Sherlock. And yes, I am accompanying him today. He prefers to go alone, but Mycroft tells me he sits there and reads to the tombstone and sleeps there in that blasted, ratty coat of yours." Greg glared at Sherlock and shook his head. "He never takes the damned thing off, Sherlock. It just about swallows him whole. He doesn't eat or sleep and only leaves the flat to visit you or to get occasional things he needs. He's usually out for 5 to 10 minutes at a time, except for visiting you, of course. He sits there for hours and sobs and reads and sleeps. It's unhealthy, Sherlock." Greg paused his angry rant to look at Sherlock and was surprised to see tears streaming down the high cheekbones, streaking across his face in shiny lines.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding tiny and devastated. Greg just sat there and stared at Sherlock, watching the man as he put his head in his arms, resting it on the table, his thin shoulders quivering.

"Why what?" Greg wanted to place a hand on Sherlock's thin shoulders, wanted to comfort his friend, but there was something about the way his shoulders were shaking and the sounds of the small whimpers coming out of his mouth that told Greg that Sherlock would much rather be left alone.

"Why can't he just move on?" Sherlock almost shouted, attracting several stares from the other customers in the small shop. Greg blushed and looked down at his hands, picking at his nails for a few seconds.

"He loves you, Sherlock," Greg whispered, watching as Sherlock dropped his head back down with a groan.

"And that stupid coat, what about it?" Sherlock asked, his voice muffled by his arms.

"Sentiment," Greg said warily. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and wiped his eyes off with a napkin, blushing slightly. Greg shook his head and settled back into his chair, the image of John, the coat hanging off of his small shoulders, his face gaunt and drawn in filling his mind, and he suddenly felt very angry at Sherlock. Why did everyone but John get to know about his fake death? Why was John the only one left out and therefore the only one suffering? But then, Greg cast another glance at Sherlock, and saw the tortured expression painted there. So John wasn't the only one suffering, but Greg didn't see why anyone had to suffer? "Sherlock," Greg began, the image of poor, heartbroken John burning in his mind. "Why didn't you tell John? Why did everyone but him get to know? Don't you care about him at all? You're killing him, Sherlock, and you know it. I know you did it to save him, but he isn't really living Sherlock, not even close. He needs you Sherlock; don't you need him?" Sherlock stared at Greg for a while before shaking his head slowly.

"It's for the best," Sherlock muttered, and his face became an unreadable mask in that instance. Greg sighed as Sherlock pulled his phone out to thumb out a text. To whom, Greg had no idea.

"How?" Greg stared daggers at Sherlock, begging him to challenge.

"I'm not good for him; I need to go Greg, actually." Sherlock moved to stand, but Greg watched as his eyes travelled across the small shop, landing on something. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes were filled with anguish.

"Sherlock?" Greg asked, waving his hand in front of Sherlock's vacant eyes. "Sherlock?!" Greg asked again, shaking the man's shoulders roughly.

"What John?" Sherlock snapped. "I need to go, but I'll see you around." Sherlock got up slowly, the vacant look still in his eyes. "Remember John, as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable."

"Ok Sherlock," Greg said softly, wiping the tears off of his face.

He didn't know that two men could ever be quite so broken, but then again, you learn something new every day.

**A/N: Please do review and tell me if you like this enough for me to continue! Cheers, mates xx~**


	3. Part III

**A/N: Here you go! The final part to this little drabble! This is super fluffy and happy and yay! Cheers xx~**

Greg stared at his phone every few seconds, praying that he would turn and the screen would light up with the much anticipated text, but it still hadn't. A million thoughts ran through the D.I's head; what if something had gone wrong? What if Sherlock was too late? Greg's stomach curled up uncomfortably with that thought, so he quickly dismissed it, focusing on the positives instead. He closed his eyes and imagined John's face; it would go from confusion, to shock, to anger, to sadness, to more anger, and then finally joy. Yes, John Watson would feel joy again, and this thought alone brought a wide grin onto Greg's face.

He continued to check his phone, nervously pulling it out every other seconds, checking it obsessively. The time read 22:17, and Sherlock had promised a message at 22:00; Greg would be lying if he said he wasn't worried.

"Dammit, please tell me he got there alright, dammit," Greg whispered as he launched himself out of his chair, pacing the room quickly. What if Sherlock got there and John was… dead? Greg shuddered at these preposterous thoughts; John wouldn't off himself now would he? Greg had just went and visited him yesterday to make sure everything would be ok for "Operation Return," as Sherlock had so childishly decided to call it, and John had been the usual. No red warning signs had flashed; he'd just been that same silent, staring form, sitting on the couch wrapped in that blasted coat. After eight months, the thing really was threadbare, and Greg didn't know how John wore it at all anymore, it smelled awful and was so grimy; it didn't look anything like it did before.

Greg jumped at the slight tremble of his trouser leg, and whipped his phone out.

**He punched me –S.H **

Greg laughed and felt the tears slowly rise into his eyes, a smile stretching across his face.

**And then he hugged me and he won't let go. I don't want him to. –S.H **

Greg laughed again, tears flowing down his face, his hands trembling in excitement, making it hard to thumb out the text.

**Oh, Sherlock. I told you he'd be happy to see you –G.L **

Greg laughed again, pulling out his phone and punching in Mycroft's number with a silly grin on his face.

"Holmes talking," Mycroft said, sounding bored.

"He punched him," Greg laughed into the phone, shaking his head at the thought. "John Watson punched your little brother in the face, and apparently, now he won't let go of him." Greg wiped the tears off of his face and sat down in his comfy arm chair, feeling the happiest he'd felt since Sherlock had "fallen."

"Ah, the two are reunited?" Greg felt his smile widen; Mycroft Holmes sounded happy.

"At last," Greg whispered, staring off into the space of his living room, feeling a tremendous weight lifting off of his shoulders.

They always say that "home is where the heart is"

Well, Sherlock Holmes was most definitely, finally home, because home doesn't have to be a place, it can be a person too.

John Watson was Sherlock's home, and always would be.

ɸɸɸɸ

"I'd like to propose a toast," John said, standing up out of his chair, smiling at Sherlock warmly. "To my best friend, my partner, my husband, my colleague, my saviour, and the father of my son, thank you, Sherlock." John smiled as everyone murmured their thanks and drank to Sherlock, the room feeling warm and cozy in the orange glow of the fireplace.

"Da?" He heard from his left. He turned and smiled at Hamish, leaning in and giving him a quick peck on the cheek, buzzing his lips against the soft cheek with a grin. "Daaaa," Hamish screeched, laughing lightly, his little voice filled with delight. John smiled and pulled Hamish into his lap, nuzzling his head into the toddler's light, wispy blonde hair.

"Having fun are we?" Sherlock murmured into John's ear, his deep baritone sending shivers up and down John's spine. John just smiled and placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips, grinning as Hamish put his little hand up to pry them apart.

"Fa, Da, no kissing at the table," Hamish giggled, continuing to pry at their lips. John pulled away and beamed as Mrs. Hudson came in the room, clucking her tongue and smiling at them.

"Boys, no kissing at the table, and especially not in front of the children," Mrs. Hudson said, motioning towards Hillary, Molly's daughter and Hamish with a smile. John just shook his head and kissed Sherlock again, deepening the kiss.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, can't help myself." John placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh and squeezed gently, giving him a warm smile.

"He can't keep himself away; it's really a problem at crime scenes." John just laughed and punched Sherlock playfully in the arm.

It had been six years since Sherlock's return, and it had taken a while to transition back to being together, but after the first year, things started to get relatively normal again. John began to regain his health and after a bit of therapy and lot's of very supportive help from Sherlock, he was back to being his regular self, just about.

He'd always be scarred with the memories, and he still often had nightmares of Sherlock's fall. But now, now he had Sherlock to wake up next to, always ready to pull John into his arms. John smiled as he looked over at his beautiful partner again, feeling the warmth of having all his friends in his home with him.

Everyone was here; Molly and her husband, Jackson, a quiet scientist who'd moved here from Canada a year after Sherlock's return and their daughter, Lestrade and his wife of course, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft.

John couldn't keep the smile off of his face as Mrs. Hudson brought in the cake, alight with several bright candles, thankfully not the correct number for his age.

"Happy birthday, Dear," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she set the cake on the table. John smiled at the simple design on the top, bearing the words 'Happy Birthday John' in pretty, powder blue, scrollwork letters, and the rest of the cake was cream, decorated simply with the same powder blue colour, the icing drawn up in elegant twists and turns.

"It's beautiful, thank you," John whispered, grinning at his friends. He remembered six years ago, remembered thinking that he would never see another birthday again, not wanting to celebrate anymore without Sherlock and smiled even wider, because here he was, married to the most perfect man on the face of the planet. He flushed as everyone sang happy birthday, Sherlock's voice low and throaty near John's ear. At the conclusion, John faintly heard Sherlock murmur something, nuzzling John's ear with his lips.

"May you have many more, my love," the deep baritone rumbled. John smiled and turned to place a brief kiss on Sherlock's lips before cutting the cake, watching in delight as Hamish ate his piece with his hands, foregoing all table manners.

"I love you too," John whispered, feeling perfectly and wonderfully happy as he sat in between the two most important people in the world to him. "May we celebrate many more together, many, many more."

John smiled again as Sherlock just nodded and kissed him deeply, grinning at the playful protests coming from around the table.

"Piss off," Sherlock muttered before pulling John back in.

John had never felt so happy and completed in his life.

ɸɸɸɸ

John stroked the worn material tenderly and buried his head into it, smelling the old, musky smell that he'd practically lived in for all those months.

He sat in him and Sherlock's closet, leaning against the wall, the box open beside him. It was late, and Sherlock was sleeping soundly, which John was thankful for. He liked to do this alone. He pulled the coat on; laughing at how much tighter it was on him now. The threadbare coat was barely even a coat anymore, more like a pile of fabric that had once been a coat. John smiled and pulled the fabric tighter across his chest, snuggling into the fabric. He remembered how the coat had once been so elegant, so flowing, and sighed softly. This coat had been through it all.

John sat on the ground for a few more minutes, nuzzling his nose into the fabric, breathing in deeply once again, before getting up slowly, packing the coat back into the cardboard box, shoving it against the wall.

He padded back into bed softly, climbing in and pulling the sleeping form of Sherlock against him.

"Seven years, huh," Sherlock whispered, causing John to jump slightly.

"Oh, Sherlock, I thought you were asleep," John admitted sheepishly. "I, uh, yeah, haha." John fell silent and listened to him and Sherlock's breathing, trying to match his pace with Sherlock's.

"You're so sentimental; it's adorable," Sherlock murmured, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. John just blushed in the dark and shrugged.

"That coat got me through a lot." John smiled as Sherlock pulled his head onto his chest.

"I know, love, and that's why I let you have your moment." Sherlock placed a delicate kiss onto John's temple, and John melted into the touch.

"I'm so glad that I'm not sitting in front of a grave right now," John whispered, soaking up Sherlock's warmth, inhaling the scent he'd at one point forgotten.

"Shh, love, we can think about graves later. Right now, it's just me and you." John smiled and nodded, shivering as Sherlock's hands traced up and down his bare back.

"Forever," John agreed, slipping off into sleep, the anniversary being nearly painless.

The only things he had from the dark time were his memories

and Sherlock's coat.

**A/N: Please do review! I really hope you enjoyed it! xx~**


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